


What You Can See

by iiskaa



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Dom/sub, Foursome, M/M, Self-cest, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-19
Updated: 2011-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiskaa/pseuds/iiskaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a pairing generator prompt: Thundercracker/Reflector, dominance. Tactile/non-sticky. One-shot PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Can See

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic is old. Originally posted to fanfiction.net and LJ in August 2008. Slightly revised.
> 
> klik = 1.2 minutes (IDW)

There is blackness: a length of oil-stained tarp serves as a blindfold. The electrocuffs binding his wrists behind his back add minor discomfort, compounding his sense of helplessness.

There are hands: caressing his wings, his canopy, gripping his chin to pull him into a harsh kiss, tapping a random staccato over pressure sensors, scratching at seams in his armor. Impossible to keep track of them, as many as there are. Now three of them, then only two, then six.

There are the synched vibrations of three fields reading as one: one mech in three bodies, moving in and out of tandem. He has no way of anticipating where they will touch, what they will do, whether the next thing he feels will be pleasure or pain, and it is terrifying and thrilling. It’s thrilling giving control up to these weak and vicious things, and not knowing who is who, not knowing which one is teasing the transformation seam at his flank, which roughly fingering a spoiler, which watching and directing the actions of the other two.

Even if he wasn't blindfolded, he could only have told one from the others at best – their faces identical, their bodies nearly so - and that thought, too, is thrilling.

"We're going to take the cuffs off," three voices echo. Then, rising above the rippling harmonics of their giggle, one, coming from somewhere behind him, continues, "You are going to behave yourself?"

"Yeah," he breathes out, a guttural sound - rough with arousal, Kaonite-accented. They hate that and he knows it.

"What was that?" Voices playful with underlying hardness.

"Yes. Yes - Reflector, please..." Anything, anything to be able to respond to their touches, if they'll allow it.

And then, like virtual particles blinking out of existence, the electrocuff-induced numbness around his wrists is gone. Immediately he lifts one hand toward the blindfold – they twist his wrist away, pinch and slap him. A single voice whispers in his audio, "Don't touch that."

Hands running up and down his thighs. Another pair traces patterns on his wings with fingertips only - evolutes of sine functions and wild muon track curly-cues.

The last take hold of the hand he'd lifted to the blindfold and guide it instead to his own cockpit canopy. "Show us how you pleasure yourself."

He hesitates – it’s such a personal thing, and whatever they are, it isn’t lovers - but the Reflector behind him presses encouraging lips to the back of his neck, and the echoing three-voice, "We want to see it."

Dragging his fingers lightly over canopy struts and titanium ceramic alloy, shaking, then harder, because he needs it. Then reaching out blindly - not to the one at his knees, nor the doppelganger now nibbling along the upturned trailing edge of one wing, but toward the disembodied third voice, the one not touching him. "Please."

Their undulating giggle, an unvoiced communication between them. A shifting of positions, minute vibrations through the berth felt in thighs and aft, then his wrists are pulled behind his neck and held there, and the hands on his thighs sliding down – down past knees, past the curves of turbines, deft fingers pressing into the mouth of one heel thruster.

"Mnngh - no..." he protests, jerking his foot in the other’s grip. Their response is immediate: hands tighten on wrists, a cable is twisted suddenly and painfully.

"Settle down," snaps the closest voice. Then the one near his feet, "We'll be careful."

"...careful."

"...careful."

His imagination supplies flashed grins and optics glinting dangerously in triplicate.

Fingers continue their exploration, finding fuel injector lines, probing in between the blades that line his afterburner, curling beneath them. All three voices laugh at how it makes him twitch.

"Do you like this?" The voice of the one at his feet is the strongest, the other two, nearer him, only sibilant whispers. The fingers strum across the blades.

He shudders, unable to answer, and pulls at the hands holding his wrists. He’s surprised when they release him. The fingers give his blades another stroke and withdraw.

Now they’re moving around him, grazing contact and heated metal’s proximity and the tang of ozone and electricity in the air.

One of them straddles his lap while the other two retreat. A mouth moves restlessly over his canopy, slick, eager glossa mimicking the way his own hands moved before. Only now, everything he feels is unexpected: the insistent suction of lips locked over seams, a glossa grazing his throat so lightly he barely feels it, pressing harder when it reaches the corner of his jaw.

At the edge of the berth – he can vaguely place them by the noises they make – two bodies move together, two throats with one voice making soft, indistinct sounds. Heat ramps merely at the thought of what they’re doing to each other. A scrape of metal, a moan followed closely by another. The third is muffled against his throat. They cycle air as one.

Then they’re moving again. Something brushes the hand he's using to grasp one Reflector's hip, pulls that component away from him. Another grazes fingertips against his empty, reaching palms.

"Here. Touch me here," a single voice says, indistinguishable in timbre and modulation from the others'. Both his hands are guided to an exposed lens in the center of a chest, and now he knows which one he’s touching. Living glass, so very delicate – but his fingers feel clumsy, prodding at him, so he slides his hands around the small of the mech’s back and instead places his mouth against the lens.

They jerk in his grasp and against each other, shuddering encouragement and murmured instructions, the scrape of his teeth making one whimper, and the other two, their mouths locked together, muffle each others’ cries.

"Slower/Not so hard/Ah, Primus!" they say.

A small hand slipping into his armor, taking hold of a bunch of wires and giving them a hard twist. Their third coming up behind him, pressing palms flat against his wings, sending tingling photon flashes skittering across his sensor grids.

"Keep going," the three-voice orders, and again the hand tugs on the bundle of cords, and Primus he’s close, overheating, but he drags air through his vents to cool himself and does as they order, flicks his glossa against the lens, around its rim, and Reflector gasps, the sound rippling between his three parts.

Their fields are flaring in concert: sharp spikes of energy almost painful against his sensors, constructive interference on top of constructive interference, amplified by every scrape of metal against metal, every glancing touch.

It’s too much: the ramping energy, hands on him and in him, the wild, confusing concomitance of sensations, everything quantum entangled. They push him down to the berth and they’re everywhere, touching him everywhere. There could be three or a thousand of them, pinching and petting and stroking, and in less than a klik, he’s arching into the blackness.

Arching and crying out and finally shaking weakly because their hands are gone, like the ghosts of neutrinos, like always, almost as soon as he overloads.

There are three bodies pressing together above him, tight cries blending into stuttering coincidence, and this, he knows from other times with them - this, he can't be a part of. This won't be on the recording chip they'll leave for him to find when he wakes with the tarp still tied over his optics. They crash and mingle into unity, a closed universe, their overlapping fields searing over the surface of his wings as he relaxes into recharge, forgotten, and his hands don't stray to the blindfold because it isn't for him to see.


End file.
